Furious Angel
by ElocinMuse
Summary: Brennan is captured and being held hostage in South America. Booth goes rogue and heads down there to bring her back. THREESHOT.
1. Death is the Road to Awe

**Warnings: One bad word. Dark themes. **

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE****  
**_Death is the Road to Awe_

She found herself hesitating before the door that had once been a cheery and pleasantly unique home. Now, the deep oak only shut her out; harsh and unwelcoming. The very thought of opening it had her envisioning a dark void which provided the entry into nothingness. Associating such a thought to him, of all people, left her with a cold feeling in her chest. She debated knocking, but knew the occupant wouldn't answer.

Making a decision, she took the knob in her hand, turned, and pushed open the door gently. From where she stood at the threshold, everything looked as it always had—nothing out of place. But the familiar space gave her an eerie feeling now, and though the room was dotted with furniture and a few pictures to decorate the walls, it felt incredibly empty.

Taking a slow, calming breath, she stepped in and made her way into the living room, her heels echoing hollowly on the wooden flooring. Everything around her was clean—too clean. She stood there, in place, for a healthy amount of time, taking in her surroundings. Finally, she was about to voice her presence when the need to dissipated.

Feeling his indistinct presence, she quickly turned her head in the direction of the kitchen, which adjoined the living room and dining room, separated by a small walk space. Leaning against the island cabinet which resided near the center of the culinary room, his shape was unmistakable. He wore a pair of black cargo pants and had his arms crossed aloofly over a simple black tshirt—the dark attire giving him added height as well as making him appear a solid shadow.

His normally warm chocolate eyes matched his clothing entirely: jet-sable and as bottomless as the depths of oblivion. The dark circles surrounding them added to his ominous and rather ghostly appearance, as well as the rough stubble all along his jaw.

Angela shifted distractedly, watching her friend with worry. "Booth?"

He remained unresponsive, staring off into nothing. She took a cautious step forward—not fearing him, of course, but wishing not to startle him if he was lost in some sort of reverie. It was then that she took note of the bottle of whiskey that was sitting against the surface of the island not far from his form.

Her suspicions arose, but she wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. She did, however, happen to notice that the bottle looked rather full. "Seeley, have you been drinking?"

"No." He appeared to drift out of his stupor for the time being, blinking, though not meeting her gaze.

His voice was different somehow. Though, his mind apparently processed her query, because he then twisted around and nudged the bottle, tipping it forward absentmindedly, deliberating.

"Booth, look at me."

Following his lack of compliance and gained ability at ignoring her, she moved forward, coming around the island opposite him and not giving him a choice. The eyes she'd thought were tired looked across at her now with an unsettling chill. They were clouded, yes, but not with alcohol, as she'd first assumed. Something else entirely. They were glazed over with a cold steel that sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.

She found that Seeley Booth was most dangerous when he didn't speak. When he was still and without definite expression. The FBI agent and former-Ranger was surrounded by inclusive silence. And his face held the coldness of a stone statue. It was equally unresponsive.

Angela, however, could feel the waves of hostility and rage wafting off him like smoke. Glancing past him, she finally noticed the twin duffle bags and a case that was unidentifiable to her memory. One duffle bag was black, much like his chosen wardrobe, but the other was a familiar shade of green. **BOOTH** had been painted on one side, faded now with age and use. She felt a heavy sinking in her chest, and found her attention drawn painfully then to the mysterious case. She was getting an idea of just what it might be, and she wasn't liking it at all.

"You're going back there, aren't you?" Her fine eyebrows arched upwards in a pained and despairing expression. "Booth, the Bureau could suspend you. Worse, maybe—"

"Fuck them." His utterance shocked her. He found that, inwardly, it even surprised himself. He'd said the words with a callous edge immediately upon her cautioning. But now, he hung his head slightly and his following words came out barely above a whisper. "They're the reason she's lost."

_Lost._

That word tugged on the artist's heartstrings painfully. "The search parties are shipping out again tomorrow." Her voice was quiet. "At least, that's what Cullen told me after I pleaded with him for any information." She stalled her voice for a moment before looking to him again. "Please tell me you're packed to meet up with them."

Instead of replying, he moved away from the island and stepped into the living room, his boots thumping against the floor. There was a long end-table that stretched across the back of the couch. Booth reached over the bench-like contraption and down below the sofa's front. His hand disappeared from her sight, but when it came back into view, the thing he held made her blood run cold.

The Barret M82 rifle shone dangerously in the low lighting of the Agent's home. Angela held back a gasp, her stomach dropping. He set it carefully on the surface of the waist-level table, smoothing his hands over it carefully, his fingers barely grazing the life-taking metal.

She knew now what the case in his living room was for. "Oh, my God…"

Booth wasn't listening. Or, at least, he couldn't hear her; his gaze boring into the dangerous weapon. Not an hour before her arrival, he had removed each fragment of the sniper rifle. He'd begun to piece it together, seated on his couch, slowly and like a puzzle. Each part that snapped perfectly into place had echoed in his mind, haunting him.

Reminding him.

Each internal locking of pieces rejoined, sealed, brought back every agonizing memory. One nightmare at a time. A reliving of his past in brilliant, derisive Technicolor.

His breath trembled in his lungs, and he pulled his hands away from the instrument of destruction as if touched by fire. A lump formed in his throat that he found himself unable to swallow.

"Why do you still have that?" he heard Angela's shaken query just behind him.

He remembered all of them. Each kill. Each one seared into his memory like a brand. Each hollow bullet shell that had ejected had signified a piece of himself, his soul, dying. A little bit at a time. When he'd finally been sent home, he couldn't consider himself a person. He wasn't living. He was simply existing. He didn't react, or feel. He only echoed.

His stare was set hard against the black steel. He reached out and brushed his fingers tentatively across the scope. "A reminder."

He also remembered what had changed him. Touched his heart with saving grace. He'd been a rather cold man after returning home. Not cruel or pitiless. Just cynical and a little uncaring. Until her.

The first time he'd met her, he'd felt his breath returning to him. He had finally begun to feel once more. Before her, he never really could. He couldn't even cry over the things he'd done. He was hollow.

A broken man.

She hadn't really meant to hold such sway over him—elicit such an effect. Maybe that was part of the cause—her lack of understanding her importance. With every glance of oceanic pools, any touch: clinical or heartfelt… every instance in her presence... he felt himself breathing easier. Each tiny miracle of her looks, her touches, her very involvement in his life, began to restore bits of life to him. Where the shots had taken away, she gave back. She restored.

She was his elixir.

The first day he'd met Dr. Temperance Brennan, he'd been annoyed. Inconvienced by the need for a partner. He'd never worked well with partners, least of all those Vulcan scientists. But with her, it was an even worse impression... she'd stirred something within him. He'd been so accustomed to his newly adopted way of life that he felt downright belligerent toward any hint of change. Nevertheless, that night when he'd gotten home, he wept. Nothing held him back. He'd sobbed beside his bed, on his knees with his face in the crook of his arm, clutching at the sheets with shaking hands. He'd cried himself to sleep: able to feel, at last, and not knowing why.

She made him real.

It went beyond affection and caring—beyond even love. He could not function properly without her. He couldn't _live_ without her.

"You're not that person anymore, Seeley." He heard Angela assure him earnestly. He could hear the tears in her voice.

He allowed her words to sink in, mulling over them carefully. He blinked slowly, looking back down at the M82. "No." He wasn't, she was right. He remembered then why he'd started packing—the purpose behind his solo mission.

Incomplete.

That was how he felt now.

Her absence was enough to break him, both mentally and physically. He swore he was even becoming ill without her in his life. He was certain she was brushing off on him, because it was completely irrational for someone to physically need another to survive. He couldn't understand it. Perhaps it was the situation. Having her lost. Abandonned somewhere in a dark hellhole, struggling to survive, despite being afraid of what tomorrow could bring. He'd swore he'd never leave her. Never betray her. And so he couldn't just stand back and wait for the authorities to uncover her. Doing nothing was unacceptable.

"But I remember." His voice had a creeping, underlying edge to it, and Angela knew he wasn't finished. A muscle in his jaw tightened, and he glared at the weapon that would soon become his only ally. He suddenly seized it in his hands, no longer afraid of the fire. "And I can get there." He snapped back the bolt, causing Angela to flinch, and checked for stray bullets in the chamber. Upon its emptiness, he moved around to replace it in its case. The chamber would not be empty for long. He could get to that place, that level, again. He could find it. For her.

Angela's gaze had dropped to the floor. Fearing to move, she glanced away from him as he worked. Her attention was snagged by a small circular container on the table which had sheltered the rifle. She reached forward, towards the trademark war paint of a soldier, tentatively touching her hand within. Drawing back, she studied the dark smear on her skin—what she knew would soon become a mask for the man before her.

Darkness.

That was what she felt. That was all she saw now.

Her friend had transformed. A Man no more, but a Soldier. _He_ was back.

Even though she knew what he was doing—what he premeditated to do—was wrong, she could only be grateful. She was never so certain of her appreciation of having Seeley Booth on her side than she was in this moment. If anyone could find Brennan, she knew who that person would be.

His sudden lack of movement caught her eye, and she noticed him standing, still, staring at a photo frame. One duffle bag was already slung over a broad shoulder. Finally finding her legs, she carefully moved over to stand beside him. The photo, unsurprisingly, was one of he and Brennan. Booth had his arms around her, dipping her as if in some spur of the moment dance. Brennan had her head tipped back, laughter on her lips and in her eyes. Her curls fell over her shoulders in a sea of auburn, one of Booth's hands smoothed over them at her back as he flashed his charming grin at her.

The photo touched the artist with both hope and ache. Her vision blurred and she felt the sting behind her gaze. She looked over at her companion and saw the glistening of tears in his eyes.

Booth was still in there. She wondered if she would ever see him again.

"I don't suppose you'd hear me out—if I tried to persuade you against this search-and-destroy-everything-in-your-way mission?" she tried quietly.

She watched him swallow before letting out a shaky breath. "I don't think you'd put up a very good argument." His voice, to her, sounded dull and torn.

"No. I guess not." With that, before he could object, she pulled him into a desperate, sideways sort of embrace. She held him closely, squeezing her eyes shut tightly and allowing several stray teardrops to escape and dampen his shirt. "If you go and get yourself killed, Booth, I'll never forgive you."

After a moment, she felt his free arm come around and return the affection. They were both quiet for a moment before his voice sounded beside her in just more than a whisper. "I'll get her back, Ange. I swear to you. I won't come back without her."

_And those responsible will pay._

She nodded against him, sniffing back more tears, and pulled away, watching him carefully as he bent down and began to gather up the rest of his belongings. When all was finished, he grabbed his jacket last. He stood then, unmoving, waiting. The light in the room ended just before his still form, leaving him engulfed in shadows.

Appearing to have reached a decision and mental preparation, he spun and stepped into the light, moving past the artist. The shadow now fell over his face, which was a thundercloud of raw emotion. A fierce determination had settled over him.

Mercy would be forgotten.

The boy he had been, before war… he had grown into a man. And now, that same man would become a single force. He didn't have time for the hope that his Bones would forgive him.

Those guerrilla bastards, the commis, the soldiers—whoever they were, they had awakened a guardian's fury. The fury and rage of which would soon be unleashed. It bubbled now like molten lava, just beneath the surface, waiting to be called forth. It was a tool. A tool of devastation that his enemies would soon be familiar with.

He hesitated by the door, knowing the artist was watching him.

Turning his head to the side, he spoke over his shoulder even though his gaze was downcast. "I was going to tell her, you know." His voice had grown soft, and it held an underlying fracture. "The day before she left."

Angela sniffed, wiping her eyes, watching after him sadly. "Tell her what?"

His eyes held a bit of their former light now, but they did not shine with cheer or boyish charm. They were deeply saddened, and even a little regretful. "Everything," he whispered. With that, he was moving for the door again, stepping through, but not before Angela's last parting words reached his ears.

"Bring her home, Seeley."

He had every intention. Bones would know Home again. No matter what the cost, or how many lives he had to demolish to ensure it.

Her grim-faced protector would soon become the grim-reaper. To achieve this, the old Booth had to face his ghost. He would die; forgotten and left behind. Someone else, something more than a man, would take his place.

A dealer of death would rise from the ashes.

* * *

_In this bloody dawn  
I will wash my soul  
To call the spirit of vengeance  
To deny my wisdom for anger  
To break the scream of the silent fool_

_And to be the Son of Doom._


	2. Home is Where You Breathe

**Warnings: Violence, I guess. **

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**CHAPTER TWO**  
_Home is Where You Breathe_

_His breathing was steady, even though chaos tremored around him, filling his ears with the din of war. He was focused only on his intent, dark bronze eyes set like steel arrows. The ground beneath him was solid and filled his lungs with dust and grime as he positioned himself flat on his stomach, the stock of his weapon digging into his shoulder. This was home to him. He knew nothing else. Could remember nothing else. His former life had been only a dream: a life that had belonged to another boy at one time. The boy was familiar, but he didn't recognize him._

_Alone at night, when no one was around to read his thoughts, he prayed for change. The recurring echoes of gunshots and screams were not what he wanted to carry with him each day. Those nights were becoming less frequent as the weeks and months passed; he no longer kept track. He didn't want to know._

_Shouts rose above firing arsenal in the dell below, the sounds of death and mayhem waging to be heard. _

_Those bronze eyes zeroed in, scanning the bodies scattering—deciphering between friendly soldiers and the enemy. He was agile and swift; his training and his experience made him a dangerous weapon. _

_His spotter, Randy Larson, squatted beside him, alert and covering his eyes with a bulky set of binoculars. In his opposite hand, he gripped his radio tightly and spoke into it with a stern and clipped voice. His conversation was cut short by the large explosion that shook the small battle raging below them. Shouts rang louder, AK's blaring against M16's. _

_Randy swore, slamming his spotting equipment back into his pack and pulled a pistol from his shoulder holster as insurance. The two soldiers had very little cover where they were positioned, and it wouldn't be long until they, themselves, were spied by the enemy. Below, several Iraqi armed forces spilled from a small compound, screaming orders in their native tongue and unleashing Hell from their weapons. Among the troupe were the men they were looking for. _

_Ashim and Mahjad Ralidahn, two brothers, emerged from the smoke and prepared for close-knit battle against a small fraction of American Soldiers. _

_No time was wasted. _

"_You got 'em, Seel?" Randy's voice sounded by his side. _

_The response was the sharp discharge of the Barrett M82, chased immediately by a second firing. The two targets below jerked and crumpled to the ground, lifeless before impact. _

_Seeley Booth experienced those deaths as if they were his own. _

_

* * *

_

Temperance Brennan fought to keep her breathing steady, but yet it came to her in shallow and frantic bursts. She backed herself up against the crude wooden wall which flanked her, seated on the dirty floor while the coarse ropes dug into her wrists and made her flesh raw. Her porcelain skin was tanned by dirt and mistreatment, stray bruises and gashes riddled on her face, arms, and legs. She had been made to wear a sleeveless sort of tunic and a pair of short leggings that barely reached her knees. The traditional uniform a prisoner was given.

Madness surrounded her, filling her ears with the din of close-combat. The sounds were only made louder due to the small size of the shack-like structure which had held her and her captors. She barely recalled her reaction to the cause of this mayhem.

The seven soldiers had each resided in their seperate designated area of the room, save for the commander and his second-ranking. They spoke in casual tones, their language foreign but recognizable to her. She'd given up her silent translation, knowing it didn't matter. That, and she was just too fatigued and broken to care.

Then, it had happened. The solid door to the entrance had been forced open, slamming back against the wall before falling off a section of its hinges. Death and mayhem ensued.

Her weary eyes, now wide and alert, saw that only one man challenged the strength of the small army. It only took her another moment to recognize the intruder, who moved with a swiftness her hesitant mind could barely follow. And though her mind argued his definite presence, her heart was long devoid of hope and countered that it was only a mirage of her starving and traumatized psyche.

The first man went down with two bullets to the heart, fired from a sidearm M190 pistol which had been drawn prior entry. The second was taken by friendly fire from his comrades. The shadow of a man had seized the native soldier by the throat when the remaining five had opened fire, shouting and cursing in stunned alarm. The Ranger spun the soldier around and used him as a shield, charging further into the shack.

The dead man slumped to the ground when he was no longer needed, and the Ranger drew a bead on another and placed one in the center of his chest.

Four remained.

Their bullets wasted on their fallen comrade, they knew they didn't have the necessary time to reload their weapons. Booth was already amongst them. His pistol was tossed aside, the remainder of his ammunition having already been used on his journey there.

One soldier brought the butt of his weapon forward, intending blunt damage to his foe. Booth seized the man's forearm in a fist, catching the attack, and brought his elbow up sharply into the man's nose. The strength and force behind the blow killed the man instantly, driving the cartilage into his brain.

Three.

The third was quickly introduced to Booth's right fist, and was sent sprawling backward. Before he could draw his sidearm, his opponent was there, behind him, and snapping his neck. Brennan watched with horrified eyes at the vicious scene that unfolded before her. She knew she had to convene some attempt at freeing herself, and quickly set to work on her bounds, assigning a protruding nail in the wall.

One soldier attempted to seize the forensic anthropologist for a bartering chip or shield, but his feet were kicked out from under him and he landed violently on his front. He was then dragged away screaming from the woman, clawing at the floor with his fingernails.

Before Booth could deposit him, the commanding rank leapt on his back, the momentum sending them both crashing into the wall, the loud splintering of wood filling the space. The leader was built similar to his foe, with broader shoulders that bulked like those of an ox. He gained his bearings and quickly drove a knee into Booth's midsection, knowing he'd cracked a rib or two.

He came up behind the intruder of his station, wrapping his large arms around Booth's neck and shoulders. He snarled and tightened his grip.

Booth threw his weight back, bringing up his legs and slamming his boots loudly against the wall, shoving them both back. They collided with the second remaining soldier, sending each of them sprawling.

The large Commander still clutched his arms around Booth's throat, who then drove the heel of his boot back and downwards at a sharp angle, connecting with the soldier's shin. Hearing a satisfying crack, followed by a pained yell, he then turned his attention to his more mobile, smaller adversary. Before the soldier could draw his machete, Booth had already palmed his own knife from his ankle, gripping it so that the blade pointed at the floor.

The machete gave a low hum as it cut through the air, dangerously close to Booth's face. He ducked the following attack and advanced, slicing his own smaller blade across the soldier's arm and then, spinning, drove it between the shoulder blades.

The soldier screamed, arching back and stumbling forward, reaching for the offending knife while he still flailed his machete wildly around. The long and thick blade tore through the black fabric and flesh of Booth's chest, stalling him only momentarily.

He ducked the next swing and feinted around the roaring man, gripping the knife handle and tearing it loose. The solider spun around with a yowl, intent on driving his machete home. Booth spared no time and brought his blade arching before the man, tearing open his throat.

The soldier fell, dead.

Behind him, Booth heard a yelp and then…

"_Suelte el arma!"_ the demanding bellow sounded from behind.

Booth stiffened, his eyes steeling, before he slowly began to turn, willing himself to not make any sudden movement.

The large commanding soldier held Brennan tightly across her shoulders with his left arm. His right hand pressed the barrel of a Glock-17 pistol against her temple. A muscle tightened in Booth's jaw, and his eyes flashed darkly.

Brennan tried to keep the fear from her face at the cool metal that pressed against her skin, and her shock at the look her protector offered her captor.

The commanding soldier spoke again. _"Sueltela. Ahora,"_ he snapped_. "O le vuelo la cabeza."_

Booth barely shifted his weight, contemplating for not even a second, before he allowed his knife to drop to the floor with a dull thud.

The large soldier pointed his gun briefly at Booth before directing it back to its original aim. _"Manos arriba, gringo."_

Carefully, Booth slowly raised his hands in the air, his palms level to his shoulders. The soldier's face began to split into a cruel smile, and he nodded his head. A dry chuckle escaped him.

The Ranger waited; patient.

Still.

The soldier pulled his weapon away from Brennan and took full aim on Booth._ "Ahora, tu te mueres."_

In one fluid motion, Booth reached behind himself and drew the M-9 Beretta from the small of his back. Before the soldier could even blink, a bullet was lodged between his eyes.

Brennan let out a startled gasp, falling away from the now-limp clutches of her captor, who sank to the ground with a heavy thump. She staggered back, pressing against the wall, staring at her friend in both awe and alarm. He wore black cargo pants and a matching t-shirt; both articles of clothing were rough now with wear and the elements and combat. The bottoms of his pants were ripped and torn and just as muddy as his boots. She recognized the material of his trademark green jacket—a sloppily torn section served as a tourniquet to a bleeding wound on his upper arm. Other strips served as a stopper to smaller injuries.

He bled also from the fresh wound on his torso, and from a graze on his left brow, and many other nicks besides. His dark brown hair was blackened by dirt and grime. She could also see remnants of traditional army paint in certain areas on his face. Rain and sweat had taken care of that. Each one of his knuckles were bruised and covered in dried blood.

Booth stared emotionlessly at the fallen man.

My death came long before yours.

After a short while, his gaze trailed down to the pistol in his hand. He didn't need to see the bodies behind him to feel their presence.

Finally, he looked at her; their eyes meeting. Breath filled his lungs with life, but that very breath came to him now in shaky intakes. His features softened and his brow arched dejectedly. He wanted to hold her. So badly that he could feel the painful burn behind his gaze and the swell of it in his chest.

Instead, he looked down again at what he held in his hand. His grip was tight around the cool metal—so much so that beneath the dirt and blood, his knuckles shone white. Suddenly, he could feel the fire burning him again, and quickly reached with his other hand and pulled the pistol's slide back, removing any threat it caused, and released it. Its two halves connected against the floor with hollow clunks.

He could breathe again, but his chest ached. He was torn equally between relief and sorrow. His walls, his defenses, and his warrior strength dissolved. He swayed slightly on his feet, before he collapsed against the wall beside him. He sank slowly to the musty wooden floor and buried his face in his bloody hands, his quiet sobs filling the small shack.

She could only watch him; beaten and frail from her time lost. The only thing that was left unmarred was her steady gaze, the clear and brilliant blue standing out drastically against her dirtied flesh.

Her heart broke for him, yet leaped at the sight of his presence. She could feel the warmth of tears on her skin, and her jaw quivered and her fingers shook with the urge to touch him, to validate his existence. Carefully, trying to avoid putting any pressure on her aching wounds, she lowered herself to her knees and gingerly began her crawl over to him.

Upon reaching him, she touched a trembling hand to his. She held it there for a moment, by his cheek, before she took up his own in hers and gently pulled it away from his face.

His eyes locked on her face, and she could see the same division of relief and pain in his own stare. He wanted so desperately to hold her, but his muscles wouldn't allow him.

Finally, she could stand it no more. Choking back a cry, she quickly pulled him into her arms. His injured ribs protested adamantly at her slight weight that rested against him, but he ignored every stab of discomfort as her cries became muffled against the junction of his neck and shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her protectively and crying now for a new reason—shedding his tears against her dirty auburn waves.

He inhaled her scent: unchanged even after over a month in captivity. He would still do anything for her.

He had killed twenty-three men before he'd reached her in his effort to find what he'd lost. The seven corpses in the room with them made it an even thirty.

In his life, he'd killed over eighty men. That realization brought him a deep heartache, and he drew his lifeline closer. As close as physics would allow. For her, he would kill eighty more. He'd be a part of that group in a heartbeat, if it meant her life spared.

Despite her injuries, she held him just as tight as she could manage, her small fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt as she hiccoughed against him, eyes wired shut and cheeks moist. Her protector had come. Just like all other times he had been there to save her. He was the one person she could always count on. Her rock.

She had been terrified she'd never see Home again—be trapped in this foreign country until she died. She knew now that she was wrong. About everything.

Home was in his arms.

She would tell him when they returned. She would tell him everything.

* * *

_**LATIN AMERICAN TRANSLATIONS:**__**  
**__  
Suelte el arma! (Drop your weapon!)_

_Sueltela. Ahora. O le vuelo la cabeza. (Drop it. Now. Or I will put a bullet in her brain.)_

_Manos arriba, gringo. (Hands in the air, American.)_

_Ahora, tu te mueres. (Now, you will die.)_

_**WEAPONS:**_

_**BOOTH'S SNIPER RIFLE**__  
Barrett M82 sniper rifle : sniper rifle actually used by the Rangers. So, that wasn't artistic liberty. lol_

_**AMERICAN SOLDIER WEAPON  
**__M-16 : American soldier weapon (traditionally)_

_**IRAQI SOLDIER WEAPON  
**__AK-47 : Iraqi soldier and terroristic weapon (most often)_

_**BOOTH'S FIRST PISTOL  
**__M190 Special Forces : weapon used, coincidentally, by US Special Forces_

_**BOOTH'S KNIFE  
**__Haven't quite decided which knife I wanted him to use. The decision is yours.  
Uzi Defender (fixed blade)  
or  
Green Beret / Yarborough  
Both are used by American soldiers, most often Special Forces._

_**THE COMMANDING SOLDIER'S PISTOL  
**__(he uses this against Brennan)  
Glock-17 : pretty basic pistol_

_**AND...**_

_**BOOTH'S PISTOL (FINAL)  
**__(sidearm he saves Brennan with)  
M9 Beretta 9mm : This pistol is quoted as "The Firearm That Protects America"._


	3. Epilogue: Healing

**Warnings: None on this chapter. **

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER THREE****  
**_Healing_

_~*~*~*~_

_-Through Comfort And Despair, the Wounds May At Last Find Peace-_

_  
_

Angela had already laid eyes on her best friend on four occasions since her return. She'd embraced her each time, and more than once. It was late now, and she was sure Brennan was back at her apartment, settling back in and desperately seeking a hot shower. However, the artist couldn't rest easy knowing that her friend was alone. And she hadn't seen her in such a long time; she missed her. Which was why she was perched outside her friend's apartment at that very moment.

Using her own key to permit entrance, Angela eased in quietly incase Brennan was already asleep. The poor girl was probably exhausted. Not to mention starved and craving that hot shower. Or warm bath. Angela decided to run her one just as soon as she spoke with the anthropologist. Despite her excrutiating time away from home, Angela doubted her workaholic best friend had changed much.

To her blinking surprise, the room was engulfed in shadows. Not one light provided visual aid for the artist to navigate any sort of course. Her fine brow knit together, a little concerned, when she then noticed the only illumination. There was a slim shaft of light emanating from Brennan's bedroom, creating a narrow line on the carpet several paces ahead.

Carefully, Angela made her way over to the room through the dark, not bothering to shed her coat or dispose her purse. Her curiosity was a funny thing, and it was more than piqued.

She paused at the door which sat ajar only a sliver, angling her ear. She heard no sound from within. All the more curious, she set her shoulders and pushed through gently, stepping in. The sight before her made her halt immediately, and her heart melted.

Both the FBI Agent and the forensic anthropologist resided on the bed, curled up to each other and fast asleep.

After her initial tender reaction, she noticed immediately that neither had changed, and neither appeared to have gotten that shower. Booth's face was cleaner, though, and Brennan appeared to have washed up a great deal as well. But yet it was not enough for the hawk-eyed Angela to miss the tear stains on her cheeks.

Booth lay on his back, slightly angled towards his companion, who rested halfways atop him. Her cheek was rested against his shoulder and her hand over his chest, fingers curled around the black fabric of his shirt. His arms were around her, shielding her sleeping form, but one of his large hands rested over her own. His nose and lips were pressed lightly against the crown of her head; their steady breathing was nearly silent in the soundless room.

Angela felt a pleasant sting behind her eyes and cursed herself. She should have known better—of course Booth would never leave her alone. Especially not now, when they needed each other most.

They both lay on top of the covers, and Angela had noticed the chill in the apartment upon her entry. She stepped out of the room for a moment, returning a few seconds later with a warm throw. She moved over to the bed, and gently draped the blanket over the partners. Neither stirred a muscle.

Angela smiled softly. She had never really known a hero—in its truest form. Now, she was in the presence of two. It was more—it held so much more meaning when the heroes were only real men and women, with no super powers and everything to lose.

She watched them for just a little longer before she pulled the door closed quietly behind her. Finally removing her coat, she then settled comfortably onto the sofa, ready for some shut-eye herself. Three years of fatigue and endless endeavor added up quickly. Three years of playing Matchmaker for the Royal Masters of Denial.

Everything would come together on its own. Eventually, everything did. A lot would change—things would be different. But only the things that mattered. Hope was on the horizon. A contented sigh passed slowly across the artist's lips, and she savored it.

She wouldn't be there when they awoke tomorrow. She would let them wake together.

She knew their bond would only be stronger now. They didn't need her anymore to give them that nudge in the right direction. They would make it on their own, just fine.

Angela smiled, her eyes closing serenely. She had created a beautiful masterpiece, with the aid of Chance and Fate. The two weary souls in the other room had finally sealed the signature.

Through all the tears, laughter, and beautiful agony, a miracle was finally born.

The healing began with the rising sun.


End file.
